(no subject)
My recovery proceeds apace. I am keeping down simple foods. I grow stronger.
There is no feeling more unsettling in this mortal world than witnessing the deterioration of your own cellular structure. Dying, from the inside out. I stood and watched. It was almost like the feeling in the shower, of the hot water running over my skin, not absorbing but merely washing away, and no matter how I swallowed, my mouth was sealed with flesh that I could not drink, so the thirst could not die. Dipsas-bitten, and dying of it.
Watching myself bleed. Cut, on patrol, by the whip of a branch -- standing there, stupid and silent, just watching the blood bead on my arm, watching the slowness of the healing, watching the encroachment of bacteria before I applied the antiobiotic ointment.
Watching my immune system fight against weakness. Watching the fever come, robbing me of my clarity. Watching the drain of energy, of nutrients. Watching as my body cried out for nourishment. For hydration.
Watching my mortality slowly devour me.
Watching death.
And I will not feel that way again. Death will never take me. Not while I have mind and power to fight it.
Still. I am his servant; how can I serve him if he is dead? His health, paramount. Over mine; over anyone else's. Sit and wait while his mortality eats at him, even as mine did to me? Not if I have anything to say on the matter.
Mouth or no mouth.
"Anyway, you're arguing with me, so it might be best for you to spend some time in the infirmary so that they can examine your head, if nothing else." (Magneto)
There is no feeling more unsettling in this mortal world than witnessing the deterioration of your own cellular structure. Dying, from the inside out. I stood and watched. It was almost like the feeling in the shower, of the hot water running over my skin, not absorbing but merely washing away, and no matter how I swallowed, my mouth was sealed with flesh that I could not drink, so the thirst could not die. Dipsas-bitten, and dying of it.
Watching myself bleed. Cut, on patrol, by the whip of a branch -- standing there, stupid and silent, just watching the blood bead on my arm, watching the slowness of the healing, watching the encroachment of bacteria before I applied the antiobiotic ointment.
Watching my immune system fight against weakness. Watching the fever come, robbing me of my clarity. Watching the drain of energy, of nutrients. Watching as my body cried out for nourishment. For hydration.
Watching my mortality slowly devour me.
Watching death.
And I will not feel that way again. Death will never take me. Not while I have mind and power to fight it.
Still. I am his servant; how can I serve him if he is dead? His health, paramount. Over mine; over anyone else's. Sit and wait while his mortality eats at him, even as mine did to me? Not if I have anything to say on the matter.
Mouth or no mouth.
"Anyway, you're arguing with me, so it might be best for you to spend some time in the infirmary so that they can examine your head, if nothing else." (Magneto)